


choppy waters

by wordsinbetween



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinbetween/pseuds/wordsinbetween
Summary: They walk along the coast at what would be an easy pace on a more reasonable day. Bill struggles to keep up with Mike’s long stride, pushed in all directions by the indecisive wind. It sweeps across the ocean’s surface and whips his hair into his eyes, plastering it against his forehead as it starts to sprinkle.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	choppy waters

**Author's Note:**

> For my buddy Irene who asked for Mike and Bill "holding hands on a long walk by the beach"... I'm not sure this is entirely what you thought I might write, but here it is. This is for all the Hanbrough diehards out there. I hope you like it. 
> 
> (Also: Everybody Lives, even though there's only two characters in this story.)

The surf is cold where it sprays against their legs, the wind blowing the tide further up the shore than the ocean could manage on its own. A gust of wind throws the collar of Bill’s jacket up against his neck, the edge of it damp and cold where it brushes against his skin.

Bill grimaces and shrugs his shoulders up higher, pulling the zipper on his coat up against the storm’s growing rage. The sand gives way beneath his feet with every step, disrupting the windswept beach laid out in front of them. The shifting ground doesn’t disturb Mike, walking next to him at a steady pace like he’s walked through worse. Bill wonders about all the places Mike’s been in the months since their fateful return to Derry. He thinks of the postcards pinned to his refrigerator door from destinations up and down the eastern seaboard, the messages scribbled on the back that had gotten longer and longer the further south Mike had journeyed.

He thinks about  _ I really wish you were here, Bill,  _ written in beautiful, concise handwriting. 

He thinks about  _ I miss you,  _ and  _ you should come visit. I’ll be home next month. _

Bill had bought a plane ticket the next day.

The temperature is unusually mild for a January day in Maine, even as it continues to drop as the storm ventures closer to land. Bill has only been here for two days, but the Los Angeles sun seems like a distant dream already.

It’s hardly been more than an hour since Mike had turned to him after they’d finished eating lunch and said, “I thought we could go for a drive,” as he’d emptied the dishwasher. 

“Oh,” Bill had said after an awkward beat of silence, glancing out the window. The bare trees outside were listing at a dangerous angle, the wind trying its hardest to beat the last of the stubborn leaves from the limbs. “Sure?”

“The weather should hold,” Mike had said, a small smile on his lips.

It had taken a minute for Bill to answer, too struck by the way Mike looked leaning against the old wooden counter in the soft grey light to reply. He watched Mike pull a dishtowel through his fingers, gently patting at the water lingering on the back of his hand. Bill was suddenly grateful for the dim light.

“A drive sounds nice,” he said, his cheeks warming. He hoped Mike didn’t notice the color on his face.

Or maybe he did.

They walk along the coast at what would be an easy pace on a more reasonable day. Bill struggles to keep up with Mike’s long stride, pushed in all directions by the indecisive wind. It sweeps across the ocean’s surface and whips his hair into his eyes, plastering it against his forehead as it starts to sprinkle. The rain falls unsteadily on his shoulders, and he can feel it start to soak through his jeans. The skin on his thighs is sure to be red and itchy by the time they’ve made it back to Mike’s truck.

Bill runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back behind his ears again before tucking his hands firmly inside his coat pockets again. The clouds off the coast are a deep, angry blue, grey at the edges as they stretch towards Maine. As they reach out for landfall. It smells like snow.

Mike steps over a piece of driftwood, a little smile on his face even as the wind bites at his cheeks just like it does Bill’s. His red and black-striped beanie is tucked down over his ears. He looks over his shoulder at Bill, a soft look in his eyes, his smile growing wider.

Bill forgets about his rain-soaked jeans, the numbness settling into his toes as his shoes struggle to keep out the chill. Bill forgets everything but the soft, subtle lines that pop up at the corners of Mike’s eyes when he smiles. He forgets the wind and the rain and wonders if he stepped closer, would he see small flecks of grey in Mike’s beard?

He wonders if Mike’s cheek would be warm under his palm in spite of the storm around them. His hands ball into fists in his pockets. His left still feels bare, sometimes. He’s grateful for the lack of cold metal encircling his skin. He watches Mike’s wide shoulders as he walks, his easy gait, the sureness in his steps. He squeezes his fists tighter until his fingernails dig into his palm.

Mike turns and starts to walk up a small rise in the sand, long stalks of patchy dead grass pushing through the sand as it slowly turns to soil. Bill slips in the sand as he shifts his path to follow, cursing under his breath but managing to catch himself before his knee hit the ground. Mike helps him up the rest of the way, cupping Bill’s elbow with his hand. He’s probably imagining the warmth that he feels bleed through to his skin. Either way, he feels the warmth spread down the center of his chest.

Once he’s standing on steady ground next to Mike, the Atlantic spread out before them, he finds it hard to look him in the eye. It’s easier to watch the storm. He used to fear the rain. He used to hear the crack of lightning, thunder vibrating through his small chest and grip the sheets tightly. He’d listen to the rain beat against the windows of his bedroom and think  _ I’m sorry, Georgie, _ and pretend he wasn’t crying.

He thinks there will always be some part of him that’s afraid.

There’s a house out on the rocky outcrop that stretches into the choppy waters. If he listens closely, Bill thinks he can hear the crash of the waves against the barrier. The blue paint of the house blends in with the horizon; for a second, he wonders if it’s really there, if it would be solid beneath his hand or if it’s a trick of the light. The curtains are drawn against the storm, but in one of the corner windows Bill thinks he can see a hint of golden light.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says, drawing his attention.

Bill’s eyebrows draw together as he registers the apology. He shifts, taking an inadvertent step closer to Mike.

“For wh–”

“For the weather,” Mike shrugs, cutting him off. He looks unsure.

“I don’t mind the rain,” Bill says, and wonders if maybe that’s the truth.

Mike smiles and ducks his chin down, as if to hide it. Bill turns towards him, until his elbow brushes against the arm hanging against Mike’s side. He doesn’t know what to do next.

Then Mike lifts his face, the smile gone from his lips, a new look in his eyes. Something firm. Certainty, Bill thinks. He can’t look away this time. He doesn’t, not even when he feels Mike’s arm shift against his.

He doesn’t look away until Mike’s hand is warm on his cheek, wiping away the rain that’s settled there. His eyes flutter closed and a small sound catches in his throat. He tilts his face into Mike’s warmth and exhales sharply, the breath rattling out of his lungs. He feels Mike’s thumb sweep across his skin again.

“Hey,” Mike says, drawing him back to the present.

He cracks open his eyes and stares at him, the soft brown of his eyes, the water droplets sticking to the fabric of his beanie. He’s smiling again, the corner of his mouth tilted up; Bill stares at his lips until the uncertainty leaves him. He takes his hand out from his coat pocket and covers Mike’s with his own.

“It’s beautiful here,” Bill says. They both know what he really means.

“Even with the rain?”

Bill takes a step closer. “Even with the rain.”

Mike pulls his face closer, until they’re barely a breath away. Bill’s gaze drops to his lips. There’s a hint of grey in his beard, just above his top lip. It leads a trail up his cheek. A gust of wind helps push him forward, lifting him up onto his toes as he leans into Mike’s space. He kisses him firmly, the tip of his cold nose pressed to Mike’s cheek. Bill’s heart thuds in his chest when Mike’s hand slips down from his cheek to wrap around the back of his neck and pull him even closer.

His other hand finds Mike’s chest, pressing against the rain-slicked front of his coat. He’s firm beneath his touch; he’s present. Real. He feels Mike’s mouth drop open, feels himself drawn toward the heat of him. He shivers when Mike’s grip tightens on his neck, a second chill immediately running down his back when Mike kisses him deeply. He feels off-balance.

Bill clings to him, fisting his hand in Mike’s jacket until their chests are pressed together, trapping his hand between them. The storm pushes against his back, soaking his pants the rest of the way through. Bill kisses him back until he has to break away with a gasp, closing his eyes. A small laugh slips past his lips when Mike tilts his head down until their foreheads touch.

He thinks about a dark cavern deep in the earth. He thinks about victory. He doesn’t remember fear, in this moment. He remembers holding Mike close, just like this. Mike’s skin warm under his hands. A grin spreading across his face. New beginnings.

It’s been months now. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of all the things that have changed. They had taken drastic measures, and so it is no wonder that recovery has taken this long. It is a road as rocky as the coast. Treacherous. If he’s not careful, he might just slip.

Mike kisses his cheek, a warm press of lips. Bill holds onto him, feet firm on the ground. The sand doesn’t crumble away beneath them. For the first time in years, he feels steady and sure of himself. He kisses Mike again, just because he can.

“We should get back to the truck,” Mike says after a minute; Bill feels the words more than he hears them.

It’s starting to grow darker outside, the late January light fading quickly. Bill nods and slackens his grip on Mike’s jacket.

“That seems like a good idea,” he says, smiling when Mike laughs softly.

They’re really not that far from the truck, as it turns out. When Bill looks back the way they came, he finds its bright red paint quickly against the grey sky. As they start to walk, shoulders brushing with each step, Mike holds his hand out in front of them, palm up.

Bill takes it. It’s effortless, natural, to thread their fingers together despite the heavy rain that threatens sleet at any moment. The tips of his fingers grow numb in the unrelenting wind, but he doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon.

_ We’ve suffered enough,  _ he thinks, and holds on tighter.


End file.
